dancing fire
by rockybluewigs
Summary: fire dancing around the memories and hurt, has to be the most erotic thing you can ever visualize. Robbie-centric - oneshot; warnings inside.


**AN: so what if it's all in lowercase? there's a bigger chance that i wanted it to be a little off-linear. this is so ooc that i can't even explain it, but if you're concerned about the warnings, they're right below you.**

**contains: pyrophilia (yeah you _definitely_ read that correctly.), unrequited love, homophobia, mommy-issues, cremation, sadism, asexuality, amorality, homo/bisexuality, ships (cabbie, jori, reck, puckentine)**

disclaimer: i own jake from state farm. hahjk

* * *

it's a cold, cold world out there. you know it, because you see it with your friends, family, and nonexistent love life. you can see the earth, crumbling into your hands, into a big mass of nothing. the world burns into ashes, ashes into your hands slowly but surely, and you know it's gonna happen. the depiction of what's in front of you is memories burned into a crisp; trinkets are still on fire, pictures destroyed beyond repair, and presents perished. it reminds you of how good life would be if they didn't exist. it would be different.

different, you say? you're erotically turned on by the smell - your friends, your family are gone metaphorically, and the only thing you have to say is - how did this happen?

it starts off as an experiment however; you wouldn't destroy things like that...just yet.

you wake up in a cold sweat, trickling down your clothed body and making almost a pool of sweat on your week-old sheets. it's only 3 in the morning, you hint, and you only have a few hours until you have to go to school, not forgetting your daily routine.

your puppet - you call him rex for good measure - lies down next to you on a makeshift bed; his eyes wide open, staring at the white ceiling who simply stares back. the rest of his body, is covered in felt for a comforter. you couldn't see 'what he's got'. rex your better half, your confidence - something in your conscience that's telling you to say these things but your appearance and social awkwardness doesn't let you. it would be a change if something happens to it.

he's another person to your friends - especially the not-so-new addition of the group of friends - her name is tori for shortie - who is as sweet as sally peaches, with her brunette hair and amazing talent in singing and acting, and with a sister who can kick your ass. to you, he's more than that. he's actually got you on dates, and out of the house for once. he's even a companion for the emotional abuse you receive from your mother. yeah, he's mean, but you - you know that it's the things your mother has said over the years. years and years of mistreatment, neglect, and put-downs, all in one person, and you find yourself hating rex.

you get up, and pick him up, and you don't bother sticking your hand in that little pocket that controls him. you look at the cartoon-like eyes staring back at you even though it's supposed to be sleeping. he sleeps with his eyes open - you remember that joke when your father first introduced you to the ventrilo-dummy, as what your mother (so eloquently) calls it.

you couldn't stand your mother as much as you think you should in the first place; you hated it when family members say you looked like her, or when anyone else mentioned how your mother's a great woman.

your mother is on the other side of town, barely having the care within her to check up on you, if at all.

rex has those eyes - your mother's. they're dark, unreadable, and full of question, and a hidden, yet loud hatred you never deciphered until you look at that photo in your father's room, that one where they're hugging closely, and your mother is barely looking happy...in her eyes.

angrily, you tear your companion, limb by limb, and gauge the false eyes out. you hated those eyes now - it's a paralyzing memory that your mother is right in front of you, embezzled in a god damn puppet. you hated it. you hate how the material is so easy to rip off, how the porcelain-like wood breaks so easily and is able to cut through your skin, how you don't hear any screaming as you rip it apart into nothing. it's still there, though. the thought of what it used to be is still there, and you can't destroy that. you can't destroy something so easily, unless you owned a magic wand and you can 'obliviate' your memories into nothing.

you stuff the remains into a paper bag. something shines in the middle of the fortnight, and it's not a star. you peer left; the lighter sparkling right there in front of your face, like it's nothing at all. you remember last using it to destroy those photos of your mother, on your command. she's nothing to you, and you're nothing to her. so destroy the evidence that you ever had a mother. you remember watching that fire dance around the pictures, burning them into dust. you would watch how erotically it would call to you, like it's summoning you to join them. as a boy, fire isn't meant to be played with. but you're a big boy now, and your mother said those things…

you grab the lighter, and head on to the back of your house, to the middle of the grassy area where the grass is mostly yellow; a yellow patch in an evergreen meadow of grass.

you drop the bag right on that spot, and bitterly chuckle. you would miss rex dearly, but you couldn't deal with your mother staring back at you anymore. it's the best thing you've thought of in the spur of the moment, the best thing you can do while your father's still asleep, and is pretty sure he can't smell fire in the backyard since his windows are closed. you tear a piece from the paper bag, and light it up. rapidly, the burning piece of paper lands on the rest of the bag, and it spreads fire. you watch diligently and excitingly. it's gone, away from your life, and you can probably feel at ease.

probably, maybe.

—

friday night. your friends are at a party and you bother not to go. there's at least another person - cat - who didn't go, thanks to her new job as a co-babysitter. it's after 10, and you're pretty sure she isn't babysitting anymore, yet you're scared to call her. what's there to be scared though - you like cat, and there's a clear sign that cat likes you too because she kissed you back, but who knows? things change, people change.

you could basically ignore cat's excitement (and obsession) with her new friend and roommate, sam, who's a blond full of fury. you remember meeting her for the first time, mistaking her for a very pretty girl that's now attending your school, and the next thing you know, you're at the nurse's office, with sam sitting next to the worried redhead, and a nasty concussion. you finalize that you hated her; she stole your girl, and she probably isn't even gay. you hated her blond locks, her tomboyish attitude, her butter sock as a weapon, everything.

you pick up the phone, and cat is immediately on speed-dial. of course she is, for when she's your girlfriend and you needed another companion during romantic comedy night. you hear her sweet, high-pitched, soprano voice greeting you on the other line, and it takes a lot of willpower to have...those thoughts again. you haven't had those thoughts, rather by the thought of fire. cat's hair is red, you point out, however fire is orange, and at times blue. maybe it can be red, like blood or red velvets…

cat tells you she can't hang out tonight. she's on a date with blondie. she's spending her time with another girl, and you're sitting in your room, wallowing in silence, with your cut-outs and photos of the redhead in different poses and faces. she rejects you yet again, and this time, she rejects you for a girl. cat obviously likes her, and you're sitting here, wondering what's so unappealing about you that she cannot see. did she silently swore off men, or just you? has she always liked girls?

you literally ask if likes girls, and your heart shatters, the minute she says, 'yes.'

what about you two? what about that magical kiss, or the time you two rode in garbage cans one night? what about the times where she appeared to care more about your feelings more than anyone else's? what about the time she didn't care much about your grandmother hating her, and would still help her to assimilate with technology? what about that? friends don't kiss each other! you never kissed your guy friends like that!

you couldn't believe your ears. you take every picture, cut out, or memory that reminds you of cat, and run to the back again, to that same spot and the same mindset. cat hurt you, and now you're gonna hurt her, metaphorically. you don't care anymore; she could date an animal and you would rather put it behind you for the sake of it. she deserves whatever she gets.

lighting that match, you drop it on the mound of cardboard, and it's immediately on fire. the cut-outs, the pictures, the gifts, even the candy - ablaze; slowly burning as the fire dances around it. your breathing becomes more shallow this time, and the tightness of your jeans are unbearable, as you whimper under your breath, the fire destroying everything to a crisp, even the freshly sun-burned grass. everything turns into ash, and you feel yourself burst, barely able to stand as the fire dies out, like it never happened. the smell intoxicates you, so much, (of course it would) that your knees buckle and you're kneeling on the relatively hot grass that starts to cool with a chilly wind.

—

it's not the first time you ever completely gotten off from that sight, but it's the first time where you haven't even touched anything but your hands. you keep remembering it, even in the worst of times when cat shows up and apologizes for not being available for you. you don't care anymore, because it's all forgotten. you simply move on from other people's negligence, especially now that the only thing you can see when you look at them is fire; they're burning within your very own eyes.

you see the oranges everywhere, dancing and spreading everywhere before your very own eyes, and you're only in class, hoping to get out of it anytime soon. you would rather be home, enjoying the quiet while turning on the stove or flicking your lighter on and off. no one here really cares about your health or well-being; just recently you ate cookies that weren't gluten-free by jade, (the biggest bitch of the school,) that manages to be your 'friend', or rather your crush's best friend. she isn't your friend; if she cared about you, she should know that you have a very high intolerance to gluten, remembering the time you ate the cookie that your guidance counselor offered to you to break you out of your inferiority complex. you still feel inferior, however, but fire makes you feel superior.

you can control the fire; what it should burn, when to do it, how, why, and all the other w's in the world. you can't control however, how enticing it can be, just watching it unfold within your very own eyes. you feel the lighter in your pocket, and while you can't set fires in school nor can you have a lighter or anything that's harmful to minors, but does it matter to you? you almost killed a girl in this school; fire should be the least of your problems.

the bell rings, and you're speeding out of the classroom faster than anyone, to the nearest secluded area of your school. there isn't much, especially when the janitor's closet and the theatre are always occupied by someone, somewhere. the locker room is too, you point out silently. you only have one class left before lunch, and your other classes don't exactly interest you either, since you can't stop thinking about those orange hues enveloping before your imagination. you sigh, and allow yourself to leave school, while your friends don't notice your sudden disappearance, and they wouldn't care anyway because you're just that much of a burden. always has, always will be.

the walk home is short - it always is. you never needed a car, and your bicycles always end up broken by the negligence of either a principal or a student. the last time was actually sam's fault, when her motorcycle ran over your bicycle, and you walk home instead. you hate how she negligently runs over your car, only for it to be a heap of garbage that no one cares about. she rips on you about your hair, your puppet, and social awkwardness after informally meeting each other with a flirt and a weapon, while she says you remind her of her ex-boyfriend; only weaker and stupider. what the fuck is that supposed to mean? you don't like to be compared! what does her ex have to do with you? nothing at all, that's for sure.

the house is empty, just the way you like it. your father is at 'work', or rather sitting on his ass while he gets paid with a copious amount of money; half on alcohol and strippers, and half on you. you run upstairs and go to your room - it's empty, messy, and smells like flowers, thanks to the automatic air freshener you put in your room from your puppet's orders. he loves the smell of lavender, just like your mother, but this is not lavender - this is rosewater.

you revel in the smell, but after finding the air freshener, you remove it from the electrical socket and open both of your windows. the only thing you want to smell is lighter fluid, or something that you decide to destroy. you figure after the cutouts of your crush, there's nothing else to burn. however, there's a picture of you and the gang, and you remember how much you didn't like jade, the girl embezzled in the most attractive guy in that photo anymore after that stunt. they're broken up now, but you still disliked her for many reasons. she's a bitch. she wears too much black. you came close to kissing her for a satellite photo, and the way she repays you is by almost shaving your hair off. she caused you to react to a non gluten-free cookie. she 'tolerates' you, which is a lie because if she really tolerated you, she won't come close to injuring you.

you rip the photo in half, and run outside to the same spot, with the same mindset you wanted. you were sure you were just gonna watch it unfold in front of you, but remembering how much abuse jade's given you since the day you two met is unbearable. jade's the first person to know of your coeliac disease, and it seems like she's forgotten it as well. she's pure evil, and you two never ever had a straight conversation that doesn't have her threatening you.

tori, sweet sally peaches with the forties accent; she's just a tool. she's a masochist with a crush, yet causing the two unhappy couple to break apart to have scissor-lover jade whenever she wants. you didn't like how fast she moves, because you envied it. you wish you had that power, especially with people you wanted.

maybe you would have girls crawling at you to your whim, grinning and petting like stupid dogs. however, you're not even sure if girls interested you. cat interested you - her hair is red, like if you really look at it, fire. she's innocent, yet different; she doesn't seem phased by today's bullshit news. instead she's always in her own world, much like you. that's why you loved her, and now you hated her.

it baffles you - cat's latent sapphism; how she's able to keep it secluded into her, much like your sexual pleasure for fire and pyrotechnics. however, you don't think it's the same, because it isn't subconsciously there. you've always been aware of it. you love looking at the stove when your mother cooked, and how she pushed you away from it because you got too close. you remember how happy it made you feel to hear the ticking of the stove being turned on.

you remember the word used to explain that feeling, but you hated it. it makes you feel like a pervert; the word that's always haunted you since ninth grade. you don't question it, because it would make your head hurt.

you burn the first half, and the second half catches fire rapidly. you smell the fumes coming from the burning film, and it intoxicates you, again. you gulp some air, as your girl jeans get tighter, and you feel a warm sweat trickling down your face. the fire dies out quickly, but it doesn't stop you from reaching down there and palming yourself through your jeans. you've learned to deal with it, instead of acting like a lost puppy every time you find your underwear sticky. this time, it won't be sticky, because you wouldn't allow it. you hate how you wash your clothes and you see the stickiness still there, staring back at you, as you remember the vile, yet relaxing thing you just did.

your zipper is already down, but as soon as you unpop the button of your jeans and your hand reaches to pull yourself out in the open, you see no shame anymore. why fight it? you're already weird. being sexually drawn to something as dangerous as fire shouldn't surprise you anymore, because it was there as a child. what used to be a good riddance experiment turns into sexual pleasure. ugh, freud would be so proud, wouldn't he?

it doesn't take you very long to finish anyway, because your legs give out, and you merely sprinkle the grass.

—

your phone rings, and you're lying on the untouched grass, with plenty more stuff you destroyed, just because boredom takes over and you're definitely not going back to school, especially since it's over in a few minutes. you have no desire to talk to anyone. people are slowly making you sick, especially since all the girls are borderline sapphic and boys cannot be trusted. you want to ignore the vibration so bad, but you can't. what if they suddenly show up at your house, demanding why it smells burnt and why you're sitting on the grass, with your hand covering your junk. you would hate it if they would shun you for whatever they think you were doing.

you pick up the phone, and it's beckett; your closest guy friend. he's worried about you. he calls you by the nickname he's given you for so many years - rob, for great measure. you hear his worried, yet cool voice speaking at you in such a comfortable rate that you aren't sure if he's serious. but of course he is, because the both of you are now in a deep conversation.

you tell beck how you got rid of your puppet after so many years of being fascinated by ventriloquism; beck's known you for that long so of course he would know how long you've had him. he isn't phased, and you aren't either. you don't tell him the real reason, though. beck tells you that he broke up with his girlfriend for over three years again because she was getting too possessive and jealous over people he even hung out with. he would rather ride solo than deal with an overly insecure girl with a blatant sociopathy that only he can see.

you two have a very complex relationship, but you never really liked beck that much. beck was too good-looking. beck makes the girls swoon and the guys green with envy. to you, beck makes you confused. how does a cool, laid-back soul ever see in a sociopathic goth with a scissors-obsession, that surprisingly isn't lesbianistic at all? how does he put up with her constant put-downs and insecurity-driven arguing? how does he do it? you would never think about dating someone like that, yet you thought of dating a genki redhead with her sanity in cloud nine thousand and one.

he asks you to come over, and you agree, despite you smelling like something burned, and sex at the same time. you will have to change, and while you don't think it's necessary, you just do it. you can't let him think you're weirder than this morning, but you don't even want him coming over. you would rather spend your extra time being alone. however, a friend in need, is a friend indeed. you sprint over to your house and take a shower - a much-needed shower with hypoallergenic soap, and scorching hot water to burn off your skin. these days, you love taking hot showers. it reminds you of fire, and it relaxes you more than it should. yeah, you're sweating in there. of course you are. however, hot is good. it's great.

beck comes over with dvd's and assorted, gluten-free snacks. he has a small grimace, and it looks like he's recently showered too...in water that smells like cologne. you let him in, and the both of you are breaking into laughs as you two watch a recent horror-comedy film, a haunted house. it's supposed to resemble paranormal activity, but even those movies were just as parodic as the parody, if not more. your mouth is dry from snacks and laughing, and your left side is comfortably warm as you notice that the both of your bodies are touching. you move slightly, and the feeling turns cold.

you have to admit it, you liked the warmth. he's taller than you and can easily be a person to lean on. however, you're still laughing at this ridiculous movie so if you do lean into him, you can hide it and say you don't mean it. you don't even like beck, but beck likes you.

beck likes you a lot.

you're not interesting, so why does he like you so much? he calls you instead of anyone else to talk about his failed relationship, and in return, you mention the cremation of your stupid puppet. what is it about you that makes you so interesting to him though? are you even sure he likes you? do you think that the way he's been looking at you is the way all guys look at each other in an airtight bromance? you don't question it any longer, because it just doesn't matter.

the movie ends, and it's already darkening outside. you finish up your snacks slowly, and he puts in another movie. you're sure that he's just in the mood for horror comedies because you see the case bearing 'scary movie' and only two sequels after. you remember when you went to see the fourth sequel, and couldn't control your bladder because it was that funny. you remember who you saw it with - the same guy sitting next to you. you loved that sequel.

for the next hour and a half, the both of you revel in each other's presence like best friends, but you two aren't best friends though. you two should, considering that he knows what you like. you feel his arm around you, and the warmth of his arm around of your shoulders is foreign, and you're not sure if you like it at all. why it couldn't be you and cat? you cherished everything about her, while every guy she liked (or pretended to like) treated her like defective gardening tools. now she's going out with someone else; someone who has the same lady-tools she has. how does that work? you never understood that particular lifestyle; it's all over high school with your crush liking another girl, sweet, talented sally peaches and her obsession with the sadistic sociopath, and apparently trina, who happens to like both. you question your friend next to you, who probably does like both as well.

but why? what's so attractive about men that other men must like? you don't like men, and your fascination with women is starting to dwindle, especially when the girls that you like never liked you back, and all that matters is fire.

what weirds you out is when you're watching another movie, and there's a particular fire scene, that draws you in. your eyes widen and your pupils dilate. you like what you see. you stare at it longingly, especially now since it's a very long fire scene, that now cuts into a scene where people are watching the fire in horror. you're watching it in awe. you would be there for hours until the fire eventually dies itself out, and even then you wouldn't be walking straight. you can't even think straight.

beck doesn't know about this situation, and you hope he doesn't because you're wearing sweats and it's not easy to hide your arousal, unless you cross your legs—no, that would make it worse! what can you do, draw it to a close, or take a bathroom break? or think of things that don't arouse you? okay, the third thing hasn't worked for a long time, and the first one would raise so much suspicion.

so go with the second. you excuse yourself, and you're practically sprinting to the bathroom, where things move quickly. you lean against the door, and cover yourself with a tissue as you move your hand up and down. the tissue does little justice as you release, because most of it drips to the floor. it's the strongest one you've had, and you don't know why. nothing accelerates you more than watching fire up close, but on a television? hm.

you're unaware of how strong it was, because you're hearing beck knock on the door softly, asking you if you're okay. he says he heard some shouting. were you that loud? shit - how can you explain yourself this time? you clean up the mess pretty quickly and stuff the tissue in the toilet, and flush it promptly. you fix yourself, and open the door to see beck with a concerned face. you explain how a cockroach scared you in there but you killed it. it's a blatant lie and he probably doesn't believe you, since you never had any such in your home, even if things suddenly change and you're having vermin seek shelter in your home. that's far from the truth because there's nothing to draw something so disgusting like that.

the movie night is continued without any more interruptions.

as beck leaves, you definitely know why he wanted to come over in the first place when he kisses you, full on the lips, and turns away, back to his car to go back to his recreational vehicle. it brings you back to the mental thought you had earlier - why couldn't men like women, and women like men? however you probably like neither. you would rather be with fire and heat than a girl, or even a guy. you never got it, and you never will, because you don't allow yourself to.

your sleep is fitful.

—

you open your eyes, and you're outside again. the world is crumbling in sight, and the only thing you care about is if you're going to live with this. you're sure that you're not going to grow out of it because you haven't yet. nothing else matters though.

the earth is crumbling within your own hands, and you love watching it. just like you love watching the erotic dance of fire. it pulls you in with the hues, smell, and destructiveness. you could destroy the world and live in a world where the fire circling you can touch you in ways that isn't really real, but that's only a dream because it burns. so how did this happen?

it happens because fire dancing around memories of hurt, has to be the most erotic thing you can ever visualize.


End file.
